Wise men, clothes chests and dreams
by coconuts-are-funny-27
Summary: A story of two people, affected by wise men, clothes chests and dreams.


**Wise men, clothes chests and dreams**

"_Dreams are illustrations, from the book your soul is writing about you" ~ Marsha Norman_

The wise men of Gondor had long ago decided that dreams fell into two categories; those that matter and those that don't. The dreams of the Numenor, of dark waves encompassing lands and people and knowledge and legend. Those matter. Others are mere fancies, said the wise men, just elements of the subconscious mind that have no deep meaning. Now clearly a problem arises from the theory of the wise men: how do you tell which dreams are important and which dreams aren't? Well the wise men, being extremely wise, didn't really think too much about this problem- after all they just _knew_ which dream was which. But what about those less astute? How are we to know which dreams matter? We don't. It's all a guess.

* * *

No dreams of dark waves ever graced the slumber of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth. But if in the months before his wife's death he had dreamt of a half empty bed and an ache in his chest he had never felt before, he had dismissed it. Forgot it. Instead, later, he dreamt of her lilting voice and an endless embrace within her arms. Each morning he woke to find his embrace broken and his arms empty.

Yet those arms weren't empty for long. A father of three rambunctious boys never has empty arms for long. Whether it be carrying Elphir away from the equine delights of the stable in order for him to eat his breakfast, or extracting Erchirion from the hole in the garden wall in to which he simply_ had_ to stick his entire arm, or indeed stopping Amrothos strangling his puppy with the force of his love, no, Imrahil never had empty arms for long. And if the raising of his sons ever made him overly tired he always had a refuge. A light airy room on the far side of the palace, fit for a princess. The inhabitant was small and perfectly formed. Yes, she fitted into his arms beautifully. His family, though no longer complete, was always a source of comfort and solace to him

Through the years dreams and fancies flitted through the palace of Dol Amroth like the gulls over the dancing waves in the Bay of Belfalas. Warriors, pirates, circus performers and once, memorably, a bar maid, all featured in the dreams of his off spring. Each he nurtured (or gently discouraged) as his paternal instinct suggested.

All this made his current predicament all the more agonising.

"My vote goes to throwing her in a chest and simply hauling her up to the citadel."

"No, no, no," Elphir interrupted Erchirion. "Play the duty and responsibility card. Granted it's a long term strategy. It will need time to bed in, but six or seven months from now, I bet it'll get results."

"Personally, I say we organise a kidnap. Get one party to rescue the other- preferably in a romantic setting. Pack some candles, a tasty dinner for two and only one sleeping blanket then let nature take its course." Amrothos had never lost his taste for the dramatic. Evidently.

"Let's be honest. I don't think he is going to go for a faked rescue of his fair maiden - seems the type to want to do it for real. Plus I don't think he has the acting prowess to pull off such a demanding role." Said Erchirion

"Who said he would be doing the rescuing?" replied a winking Amrothos

"I think I've read that one" murmured Elphir, - he would have as well. Elphir possessed a well known soft spot for a romantic adventure. Well known, that is to his family anyway. None of the orcs he had slain in the Ring War had ever greeted him with a: "Hello, have you read "Piratical Liaisons" by Lockleir? Terribly moving. Never saw the end coming."

Then again it probably wouldn't have done them much good- once a man gets into a beheading groove and all. Moreover "Liaisons" had met with poor reaction from the orcish critics.

But back to the subject at hand. Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, was faced with a problem.

"Boys! I would ask you to remember that the 'she' in question is your sister. I did not ask you here to discuss strategies on kidnap, blackmail and coercion. I wanted your advice. What do you believe to be Lothiriel's current feelings towards marriage?"

Elphir spoke first. "Well she's certainly old enough to be married. Marla was her age when I married her. But as for her feelings towards marriage, I should think they were made pretty clear by her actions towards Gorlois!"

"You don't think she's changed her mind?" Imrahil asked

"In a mere six months? I doubted it!" Erchirion laughed, and then turned sober. "It's been thirteen years and I still can't convince her that it was an honest mistake locking her in the broom cupboard. How was I to know it was her best hiding place from Amrothos? And to be fair, she did win that game of hide and seek, so it's hardly like she didn't benefit!"

"Amrothos? You know Lothiriel: is there any chance she would countenance a match?" Imrahil turned his gaze on his youngest son. Although Amrothos often hid behind the mask of a court jester or a fool, deep down he was a shrewd judge of character.

"I don't honestly believe Lothiriel was ever against marriage itself." Amrothos began. "Or even the idea of leaving home. But she's educated, more so than any other woman of my acquaintance and at least more than half the men. She hates the idea of being subjugated to man inferior to her on every level. Moreover she's intelligent enough to stop men even considering her a potential suitor. You must admit, considering her social position that's quite an achievement! So father, I think that she will marry, but never an arranged match. But then, you knew that already."

"Yes, I suppose I did," nodded Imrahil. "So telling Aragorn that Lothiriel would consider Eomer as a suitable arranged match was probably a bad idea?"

The looks on his sons' faces was the only reply he needed.

* * *

The Royal family of Dol Amroth often visited Minas Tirith now that the War of the Ring was over, but never before had there been such extensive preparations. That was how Lothiriel knew something was up.

This week alone her father had bought her two new dresses. These, along with the two the week before and the gloves and riding boots the week before that, confirmed that something beyond her knowledge was going on. Clearly there was a reason behind her father's new found interest in fashion. It was probably the same reason behind Elphir's numerous befuddling speeches on "the responsibility that comes with being a member of this family and the duty we owe to our people." Come to think, it was probably the same reason for the concerned look in Amrothos' eye whenever they talked. Why Erchirion was insisting on bringing his clothes chest to Minas Tirith was probably a different reason altogether though. Or at least Lothiriel hoped it was.

She wasn't stupid though. She knew exactly which other person of marriageable age would be in the city at the same time as their visit.

Eomer of Rohan.

"Eomer," she thought "It's a good name, certainly better than Septimus or Aglahad or Gorlois. He's said to be very amusing when he puts his mind to it as well. And he's a renowned warrior, the scourge of orcs from Ithilien to Rohan. Tall too apparently."

Quickly she shook her head. She couldn't let her plan be waylaid by thoughts of tall Rohirrim men with long blonde hair and hazel eyes. Marla had probably exaggerated his attractiveness anyway, and her opinion wasn't entirely reliable – she did marry Elphir after all! Lothiriel forcibly turned her thought back to her plan; it had to be fool proof. Amrothos hadn't exaggerated his sister's skill in dissuading her erstwhile suitors. And this plan was one of her best.

* * *

As Elphir with his penchant for romances is no doubt aware, a heroine princess and a hero king have to meet in public. Ideally at ball, but a feast will do (candlelight, dreamy, swelling music and surprisingly unaware chaperons are not essential, but can add to the atmosphere.)

Lothiriel, however, was also aware of this particular cliché. That's why she was tucked up in bed with the most (un) fortunate head cold. She "simply couldn't be expected to dance tonight, not unless you want me to partner the mumak currently trampling all over my temples."

In fact Lothiriel had become rather a magnet for these sorts of unfortunate maladies during her stay in Minas Tirith. Attacks of fainting, migraines, dubious coughs and in one instance the first case of rabies reported in the stone city for many a long year. Indeed Lothiriel's recovery from that ailment was surprisingly rapid. But then the promise of a long ride does have that effect on some people.

Still in Lothiriel's eyes the visit had been a grand success. Apart from a solitary glimpse of Eomer at the feast on the first night, (and yes, fine he was exactly as attractive as Marla had suggested) she hadn't encountered him at all.

All of a sudden the warm dark haven of Lothiriel's room was pierced by a ray of evening sun.

"You, my daughter, are a very lucky girl!"

"Pardon?" was the eloquent response.

"King Elessar, hearing of your discomfort, has sent a remedy to cure your ills." At this point Imrahil though it unnecessary to add that Aragorn had heard of Lothiriel's headache whilst they were discussing plans to get her to tonight's feast. "You shall go to the ball Princess!"

"Evidently you've been reading Elphir's book collection again father and it has addled your senses. But if you say that phrase again, I shall tell Aunt Ivriniel that you are looking for a wife and want one as soon as possible." The threat gently stated nevertheless had an effect.

"I see your quick tongue has recovered merely from the mention of a cure. Yet, the fact remains that you must rise and make ready for we leave within the hour." With that the Prince of Dol Amroth left for his study to pen a short note to his eldest sister informing her to disregard Lothiriel's next letter he was _perfectly_ content as he was.

* * *

It is commonly accepted that a lady possessing true grace can never look wholly awful. Lothiriel, descending the stairs, had tried her best to upset the truth of this statement. Even Aishil, her unflappable maid had looked aghast at her. The expressions of her father and brothers at the foot of the stairs looked no less horrified.

Truthfully the effect was severe.

A gown of violent yellow turned her fair complexion sallow and sickly looking. Regardless of the dress' exquisite cut the texture of the material hid Lothiriel's figure under a lumpy uneven texture. This is not to mention the crimes she had committed against her thick dark hair. Suffice to say that parts of a potted fern seemed to forming her headdress.

"Good heavens! What have you done to yourself?"

Lothiriel descended the last few stairs to stand before her father.

"I do believe that men equip themselves in amour before they leave for battle. Though my battle and amour is of a different sort, I believe the principle is the same."

Imrahil sighed; once again he had underestimated the ferocity of his daughter's will. "From that pretty speech may I understand that you are aware of what I had hoped to come from this visit?"

"If by talking of your hopes, you mean marrying your daughter off like a sacrificial lamb in exchange for a closer alliance between Gondor and Rohan, then yes I am aware Father. Did you honestly expect me not to be?"

"Lothiriel, I have tried my best to be a good father to you. Perhaps I can be found wanting in some ways, but never have I traded your welfare for any expedient gain."

"Not yet anyway." Lothiriel interrupted darkly.

"Hush! Let me finish. When I first countenanced a match between Eomer and yourself, it was because I thought you would make a good pair. Certainly, you share similarities in your treatment of unwanted suitors. But other than that I honestly believed, as your father, that you would like him."

"And so you opened negotiations for my hand?"

"No I did not. Perhaps the mind of a statesman influenced my desire to pair you to a powerful ally. But it was the feelings of a doting father that eventually won out."

"So I am not already promised to Eomer?"

"No. But I would ask you to remember your duty as a princess of Gondor tonight and behave appropriately."

"Of course father." Lothiriel replied. But to herself she thought: "this is just a momentary reprieve. I must press home my advantage whilst my father is not paying so much attention. I shan't be used as a pawn in the games of men. No matter how great and good they are, my future is my own."

So the family of the Prince of Dol Amroth departed, domestic disputes resolved for the moment. Or so all the men thought. Lothiriel had other plans.

* * *

Casting an eye about the room, Eomer Eomundsson was not content. It crossed his mind once again that he was a soldier not a diplomat. Oh, if only Theodred had lived. His cousin had been at home as much with bureaucrats as with his female admirers. Eomer, however, did not possess the patience for much interaction with either. In fact it shocked him that, as red blooded male, he could become so tired of heaving bosoms thrust in his face. Yet he realised now that the attractiveness of said bosoms reduced when their owners were solely interested in the coronet he now wore on his forehead.

"Thank you Bema that this visit is nearly over!" Eomer longed for the rich, open plains of his home; one could only live amongst stone for so long he thought, before you started sharing its characteristics. A stony glance from the suitably craggy Lord Dormondley only reinforced his opinion.

Yet his visit had been a disappointment in more than one sense. He had heard much about the Lady Lothiriel from both her father and his brother-in-law, Faramir. The rigid behaviour of her compatriots seemed to have passed this lady over at least. Eomer had long been entertained with stories of her victories over enthusiastic suitors; her campaign against the stuffy and pompous Gorlois had become one his favourites in fact. Her brothers' descriptions of her youthful adventures had also passed the hours on the field of Cormallen. In all, the lady had intrigued him for some time.

On making her acquaintance though, he became acutely aware of the problems of befriending such a high spirited woman. Her appearance, though shocking, he tried to overlook. But her conversation! Far more difficult to ignore when forced to sit next to her. Although Eomer was less concerned with social mores than most, even he knew not to discuss bodily functions such as the ones Lothiriel had mentioned. Definitely not when eating at any rate.

The cherry on the cake, however, had come during the desert course. Engaged at last in worthwhile conversation (i.e. conversation excluding Princess Lothiriel), he had been discussing the rehabilitation of riders after injuries to the back. Amrothos had mentioned a curious case in which one of said riders had lost feeling in his thigh after such a fall. Eomer had then brought up a similar case in one of his guard, except the area in question was the shoulder.

Or rather he had been about to.

The fork Lothiriel jammed in his thigh shifted his attention.

No doubt his reaction assured her that he was not one of those who could suffer such an affliction painlessly. Fortunately the wound had not been too deep. A change of breeches and numerous apologies later and he was back at the feast.

"Just my luck," thought Eomer. "The one woman who I would have liked to know better uses her cutlery as a weapon."

He watched as Eowyn spun past on the dance floor with her new husband Faramir. "Strange to think that Faramir and Lothiriel are actually related." He thought. Yet in truth he had spied a similarity between the cousins. Their eyes. Both grey of course, but something else as well. There seemed to be sensitivity in Lothiriel's gaze, a kind of deep emotional intelligence tampered by wry humour which one could also perceive in Faramir.

"Appearances, plainly, can be deceiving." Eomer thought before deciding no one would notice his absence. Quickly and stealthily he exited the hall, glad to put an end to the evening.

* * *

In the midst of all the merry making Erchirion noticed Eomer's absence. Frankly he thought the affair more than a little tedious.

His thoughts could be summarised thus:

Eomer liked horses, so did Lothiriel.

Eomer liked dark hair, Lothiriel had dark hair.

Lothiriel needed someone who could challenge her, Eomer liked a challenge.

To Erchirion's mind all this nonsense about pawns and duty and responsibility was exactly that. Nonsense. He bet if he could get Eomer and Lothiriel alone together for a couple of hours the whole affair would be sorted.

And he could go back to the revelry with a light heart.

"I really am an excellent brother." He thought, "now, to find my clothes chest…"

* * *

_A husband and wife. _

_Together. White sheets and warm skin._

_The wife slowly traces a scar on the husband's leg._

_Three small dots._

"_Do you remember when I gave you that?"_

"_I'm hardly likely to forget."_

"_I don't think I ever apologised."_

"_Believe me," the husband smiles, "your father and brothers apologised enough."_

_The wife turns her attention to her husband's chest. Gently, she shifts her fingers through the light covering of hair there. _

"_I feel I should make it up to you."_

"_You have."_

"_How?"_

"_We're married aren't we? Together?"_

_A kiss to the pulse point on his neck shows she understands._

_Suddenly he moves._

_Chests are pressed together. Legs entangled._

"_But if you still want to make it up to me…" is a whisper against her lips._

_Suffice to say the recompense is more than enough._

_

* * *

_Lothiriel wakes from her dream.

She remembers little. Her memories fade further as she realises she is encased in darkness.

A darkness that smells distinctly of her brother's socks.

"Help!"

At her cry her dark prison is broken by a sudden shaft of light. Someone has lifted the lid. They help her out of the chest with a grunt of surprise.

Her vision is obscured by the shock of morning sunlight. Looking around she sees a clearing in the midst of trees.

"Are they candles?" She thinks. Turning she goes to thank her rescuer.

She knows his face.

* * *

Long ago wise men could tell which dreams mattered and which did not. Nowadays we do not have such a gift.

We have to guess.


End file.
